Zopyrus’ one desire was to leave behind him the horrors of massacre and conflagration. With great difficulty he forced his way through jostling crowds of demoniac soldiers, who upon recognition of his uniform and insignia, stayed their impulse which was to murder any who did not take part with them in the destruction of the city.
The heat of a noon-day sun shone upon a scene unparalleled in the gruesome aspect which it presented. Zopyrus turned his face to the west, for in this direction the Persians did not go. Their fiendish work was in the heart of the once glorious city which lay to the north and east. Many too were pursuing a south-west course in the direction of the bay of Phalerum where the Persian navy had its headquarters.
As Zopyrus trudged onward, the limp form of the Greek girl in his arms, he noticed that the road which he had chosen, though now deserted, was of unusual width and well paved. The dazzling heat, reflected from the white pavement, became oppressive, and it was with a feeling of ineffable joy that he saw to the right the cool green shadows of an olive-grove. Looking back between the gnarled trunks of two large trees whose branches were entwined in serpentine fashion, he beheld the Acropolis topped with its smoldering ruins. Once within the cool recesses of the grove he deposited his burden, and as he did so, he received a shock. Where before had he beheld those identical features in the relaxation of death? He looked again intently, thinking it an hallucination, and while his gaze rested upon her face, the maiden opened her eyes. With a look of unspeakable horror she recoiled, then as quickly turned her face in his direction, her features expressing amazement. The refinement of his countenance in combination with his Persian uniform astonished her greatly. She marveled at his attitude of reserve. His gaze met hers and held it with an impelling magnetism till she dropped her eyes in confusion.
“You—are a Greek in disguise?” she faltered.
“On the contrary, I am a Persian officer in the army of Xerxes,” he replied, and perceiving her look of terror, he added, “but I will not harm you, rather I have rescued you from a horrible fate.”
“And I am truly grateful, but I am puzzled as to why you should care to do that for me, a daughter of the enemy.”
“The motives of a Persian are not always altogether base,” he replied somewhat coldly.
“A thousand pardons,” she beseeched, “I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness, but my people have suffered horribly at the hands of yours, and surely you can not wonder at my attitude!”
“No,” he replied more gently, “I do not blame you, but I am glad to prove to you that Ahura-Mazdâo may be as deserving of worship as Zeus.”
To his surprise the suspicion of a smile flitted across her face. Was this bewitching Athenian maiden mocking him? Her features were again serious as she said: “Ahura-Mazdâo and Zeus are one. There is one all-powerful God, and compared with Him the others are quite insignificant.”